Symphony in Four Movements
by Mika60
Summary: Their tale transcends through the unwritten melodies of history. Otabek/Yuri.


**Summary:** Their tale transcends through the unwritten melodies of history. Otabek/Yuri.

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 **Chapter I: Samarkand Overture**  
 _329 B.C._

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A scorching summer sun looms above vast plains, coated in shades of barren sierra that harshly rid the landscape of all opportunities at survival. Seldom will living beings dwell in this expanse out of their own desire, for the endless layers of dried soil only conceal carcasses and lost souls.

And yet, the silence breaks under a pulsing rumble on this heated day, signifying the arrival of those under the calling of the Sogdian warrior, hundreds of whom now ride valiantly across these outskirts of their homeland. The blackened muscles of panting stallions drive them onward, each powerful stride generating wisps of feral dust that only cloud their paths furthermore. Onward they sprint as the guardians of a land under fatal threat, pursuing fears that remain far too unknown.

A deep horn sounds in two deliberate tones, and within seconds, all movements deescalate into a singular, languid pace.

"We rest!" The leader commands with resolve.

The men grunt with approval, and many immediately dismount from their horses in order to loosen the suffocating armor that test their endurance. Clasps come swiftly undone while hats and helmets fall to the ground with little fanfare, other than the relieved gasps that follow.

From his discreet position, Otabek watches the scene in silence.

They are young like him, often younger – and for many this is merely their first foray into warfare. All possess physical competence, yet the fragilities of the mental form do not escape Otabek's keen scrutiny. Even the one immediately flanking him in their formation – a lean-faced man with sunken cheekbones and a pointed chin – is no different. Time and again, he howls ardent declarations for his young wife into the skies as they ride on, with a dedication that rivals even the stars' promise to appear every night.

Lingering beneath all their hollow aspirations is that unforgiving knowledge - only half a day's journey away from their precious land is the relentless one they call _Alexander_ , wielding a sword no doubt drenched in the blood of his defeated. The hoofs of the demon king's fearsome steed grind against conquered ground, crumbling fine sand into even less insignificant grains.

Time and again, even the most tenacious of warriors must indulge in what they had left behind.

 _Yuri_.

His fist clenches around the wooden carving suspended over his chest.

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 _The final piece of leather enveloping Otabek's armor proves the hardest to put on, as its inadequate size barely stretches over the firm layers already in place beneath. With the flawed grace of a stoic he struggles against the restricted mobility of his torso and limbs, a most hopeless task at the pinnacle of a maddening day._

 _Afternoon light suddenly appears in a myriad of dancing forms throughout his tent, creeping through a misshaped opening created at the entrance. There is no need for him to turn around, for only one individual would ever dare to pay visit without identification, and only one would care enough to visit him in these fateful times._

 _"Are you here to deliver your parting words to me, Yuri?" He returns to a usual, somber stance, temporarily ceasing all fruitless scuffles._

 _There is a pause, followed by the faint noise of fabric being dragged across the ground –_ he must be wearing his favorite cloak again _, Otabek thinks – and soon, a presence materializes just behind him._

 _"I refuse to utter such nonsense." Yuri's sharp tongue is punctuated by his evident irritation. "That bastard Greek King has never been challenged by the likes of you."_

 _"The Greek King is a respected warrior as well."_

 _"Not like you." The retort is swift and full of emotions Otabek cannot comprehend, even when long, elegant fingers clutch at his calloused ones in a frustrated manner._

 _"_ You _are a hero, Otabek."_

 _He knows that in Yuri's eyes, he has never been anything less. Ever since their first meeting as neighbors and him bearing witness to the astounding sight of golden hair and alabaster skin – traits only an adopted orphan could possess in their land – he has always sought to protect the fiery soul beneath those delicate features. They were innocent all those years ago, but Otabek understood sooner than necessary that beauty was truly in the eye of the beholder, for the striking boy named Yuri endured prejudice from the rest of Samarkand's people, and for the same reasons as Otabek's own reverence of him. To all others, Yuri was a coil of boundless strength, countering against heartless words and actions throughout upbringing. But only in the privacy of their two homes did that resilient heart occasionally unravel, for there one could bear witness to the pair of children huddling in the corners, the younger shedding infinite tears into the elder's embrace._

 _At the worrying memory Otabek releases their clutched hands at last to turn around, and he sighs in relief that the Yuri who faces him now bears no visible signs of lament. Instead, he is the vision Otabek remembers with painful clarity: long, golden hair cascading like the sand dunes of the deserts, undulating at the slightest breeze as the ends sway near his waist. The pair of alert, aquamarine eyes still command more determination than most of the warriors he has encountered, especially now as they dart across the unkempt nature of his armor, assessing every imperfect detail._

 _"You need help with this again, don't you?"_

 _Otabek can do little but nod in response, raising his arms awkwardly to welcome any aid._

 _After all, he has always needed Yuri for this part – and at many other times._

 _Lithe hands immediately perform the daunting task, undoing buttons and rearranging material as Yuri deems necessary. Even when confronted with heavier pieces of metal or mail, he removes and reinstates them with little effort. As always, every action is smooth and without hesitation, as if he thoroughly understands all resolutions to the worries plaguing the man in front of him. With every reconstructed step, he circles Otabek's figure once, ensuring that all attachments are appropriately in place._

 _Eventually, Yuri stands back, admiring his completed work with a satisfied grin. At the rare sight, a phantom pain scatters across Otabek's chest, as if the warmth of such an expression had already penetrated through all those artificial layers of defense. He knows his usually controlled expression is slowly contorting into a grimace, because for the first time since morning, harsh realizations enact a merciless strike against his conscience._

 _"Thank you, Yuri." He finally strains._

 _Yuri scoffs with amusement, seemingly not noticing his internal strife. Instead, he makes a most unusual declaration._

 _"One more piece still remains, Otabek."_

 _Before the warrior can voice bewilderment, the younger man reaches into his right cloak sleeve, retrieving a uniquely shaped wooden pendant connected to a piece of twine._

 _"For you." He extends the gift. "I carved this."_

 _Otabek receives the object with delicacy, appreciating its intricately crafted details through touch first and foremost. The maple wood has been smoothened beyond measure, with a texture more similar to fabric than fauna. Though its size barely exceeds the width of his thumb, every indent and protrusion is prudently placed, shaping features unique to something Yuri has always been affectionate towards._

 _"A feline creature?" He mutters aloud, a passive heart swelling with his own affections. "For my protection?"_

 _"No, I have far more confidence in your actual strength than any superstitious charms." A rosy tinge emerges upon Yuri's cheeks, though Otabek cannot be certain whether it is simply another illusion courtesy of the afternoon sun. "Consider this a token of…of my support."_

Support. _He nearly smiles at the absurd safeness of the word. "Is that all, Yuri?"_

 _The gifter's lips part, as if prompted to elaborate, but they close again to swallow whatever had wanted to escape. Instead, the next words from Yuri deviate, with no intention of returning to Otabek's inquiry._

 _"Do you remember that night, last winter?" An uncharacteristic glassiness alters aquamarine irises into a sullen turquoise. "When we snuck out of the city walls together and laid on the frozen river ice for hours, watching the stars?"_

 _At first, the memory washes over him in the form of a calming wave. "I do."_

 _Reaching for Otabek's opened palm, Yuri reclaims his carving for a moment._

 _"A few of the stars had formed the shape of a feline." As he narrates the tale, long fingers unwind the knot upon the twine. "You had pointed it out to me because you knew I was fond of the animal."_

 _When Yuri leans into him boldly, attempting to retie the pendant around his neck, Otabek realizes that he remembers that night all too well. Similar to now, neither proximities nor boundaries had existed between them - only intertwined fingers pointing together at each glow in the galaxy, faint body heat from one remedying the other's inevitable shivers, and frigid ice beneath numbing all their adverse senses – including any semblance of fear or anxiety. Their universe was beautifully silent then, a vast haven full of promises and journeys to come, never to be destroyed._

 _But as Yuri parts from him again, the brutality of their current condition is all that remains. For they now exist in a false imitation of that tranquility – an agonizing silence that threatens to smother them both within the tent._

 _"When winter comes," Yuri centers the pendant, both voice and hands quivering as if the temperature surrounding them were already glacial. "We must do that again…Otabek."_

 _The request is feeble at best, possessing none of the conviction Yuri usually commands. It is then that the hero's own façade finally shatters, for he fathoms the inevitability of this upcoming voyage, his utter powerlessness at protecting what had always been most important to him. Before the distance between them grows any further, stout arms fervently enfold a slender figure within, while fingers meander through radiant tresses in their own measure of despair._

 _"I will not return from this, Yuri." Hopeless words are all that remain from the warrior, no longer embodying his usual composure. "Samarkand will be lost, no matter our sacrifice."_

 _"I know." Familiar tears from their childhood embraces return, as fists pound against armor in a heart wrenching amalgamation of denial and fury. "Do not say it again. DO NOT say it again."_

 _Before them lies only a path into the Sogdian deserts, with its merciless sandstorms concealing cruel enemies and ceasing all attempts at escape. The river waters that previously supported their bodies have withered away, leaving only burnt silt and parched life forces grasping for every last chance at existence. Somewhere in those lands, the two of them stand alone, eternally separated by the fatal consequences of power. Within this universe of ruthless warfare they are innocents once more - forced to grapple with the reality that whatever they had shared – the closeness, the mingling breaths, the touches – may never come to pass again._

The silhouettes of two riders appear from afar, rousing uneasy commotion among the resting men. The tensions fade once the familiar patterns of Sogdian armor become apparent, but Otabek's reliable instinct continues to whisper dire warnings into his ears.

As their allies draw close, cries of terror also manifest in their full capacity.

" _Alexander_! It's Alexander and his men! They must have marched overnight…they are mere moments away from here!"

His heart darkens to a shade akin to oblivion, and the only resolve remains is that of persistence. For even if he endures for a moment further, it's a moment longer to _live_ , one more instant of retaining those memories that only a hero curates for himself – those epic tales of victory and strength, of failure and loss, of splendor and love.

 _He kisses the pale, trembling forehead of the one he loves and loves him in return._

The same kiss graces the carving around his neck before Otabek tucks the memento carefully within his armor – the last objects bearing Yuri's own touch. Then, he wistfully abandons all the beautiful stories they already lived and had yet to live, unleashing an indignant cry to the sky as he charges at the shadows emerging on the horizon.

 _His feet pace onward towards that inevitable fate, situated outside the tent in the form of a trusted stallion - ready to escort him to where his heroic story ends._

 _"Go. Do not turn back."_

Yuri's final murmur resonates within his psyche, trumping even the thunderous battle cries stirring the warriors' final assault.

 _"Be with the stars, Otabek."_

[Samarkand Overture – End]

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 **A/N:** My greatest gratitude goes out to everyone who has spent time to read through my first attempt at portraying Otayuri in fanfiction (And sorry about the heavy dose of angst)! Each chapter in this series stems from my countless listens of Otabek  & Yurio's four pieces of competition music in the first season of YOI. Needless to say, this first chapter was inspired by Otabek's short program music, _Samarkand Overture_ , and its setting is loosely based on Alexander the Great's conquering of Samarkand (Marakanda) in 329 B.C.

While I will be incorporating elements of actual Persian/Russian history throughout the four chapters after researching extensively for the purposes of writing this fic, I am admittedly not of Russian/Kazakh/Uzbek origin nor well-versed in the more specific details, so please forgive any cultural deviations, misattributions, and the like.

Chapter 2 will feature _On Love: Agape_.We will travel forward to the 12th century and view another scenario, this time in Yuri(o)'s perspective.


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